


remnants of me

by fourthdimnsion



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mild Blood, Mild Horror, Proof Read Once, the grandmaster is absolutely broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:41:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourthdimnsion/pseuds/fourthdimnsion
Summary: Between the cracks of the Grandmaster's reflection, wicked within his glare, there's a pair of silver eyes that he hadn't seen before.
Relationships: En Dwi Gast | Grandmaster/Loki
Kudos: 17





	remnants of me

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what was that and why i did this, but enjoy

There’s nothing besides his own reflection in the mirror, and En Dwi didn’t like what he saw. 

All that’s left to live he had lived in his best, in the pinnacle of his existence. Maybe he’d lived these pinnacles for more than once or more than he could count in his fingers. His chest was heavy as he tried to breathe deeply, trying to focus on his eyes when his vision seemed to be a little blurry in the dark — which was a terrible yet satisfactory combination. En Dwi didn’t know when drinking lent him into feeling anxious, his heart racing, bumping loud and vibrant inside his throat quite like he’s about to vomit, but he doesn’t feel the urge to do so. It’s the intention that makes the thought, and the thought that makes the thing happen. 

En Dwi had done it— Always did. He made various things happen in Sakaar, he crafted things from the beginning, he blew life in this land. Like Big Bang, but he comes before it; and then when it was created, he began to create as well. 

But then, he doesn’t like what he sees in the mirror. His gloomy eyes, his hair wonderfully grey, expression marks time has given him — that’s his beauty that many Sakaarii envies, or doesn’t do when acknowledging what he does with his own bare hands. So handsome, so wonderful, and so capable of destruction that appearance doesn’t bear what’s inside his mind and what can be done with the mere thought of it. 

En Dwi didn’t like it anyway. 

Something was odd, something was _unperfect_. Something wasn’t on his roots as he tilted his head and tried to see it better, better, as if he could see from the outside to the deepest inside of him, the most vulnerable part of him. 

A loud noise echoed in the room. 

En Dwi still remained quiet when his hand swinged, throwing the vase on the mirror with such wrath that he didn’t know it lasted even after he quit being a warrior as well. When it broke, a million pieces of shattered glass flew in his eyes and fell on the ground lifelessly, without anything else left to reflect than what was given to it. He would guess that that’s what displeases him, being thrown in a world, alone, creating things all by himself and getting stuck into a point which there’s nothing left to do but accept what destiny gives and he returns it back. He’d wish that he could complain about this spiral of ongoing events, turning over and over again over his mind and body while stuck in an inertia, but what’s about to happen in the after is what gives him life. About breaking apart and later picking the pieces again. 

If he doesn’t pick them— 

He step on them. 

En Dwi’s feet are bare on the ground, touching the neutral temperature while being a stable ground between the warmth of his skin and the cold glass penetrating his flesh. He keeps pacing even when there’s nothing left to see there, only the broken parts of him. Only the broken reflection of his that seemed bittersweetly on point now. He stepped closer. The adrenaline taken seconds ago helped him into getting a little more sober, and it made his vision get a little less blurrier than before. En Dwi could see himself; could feel the pain aching on the sole of his feet; could understand the degree of madness he’s into, gathered into years of existence based on creation and destruction. 

He closes his eyes, his eyelids heavier, somehow numbness hitting him. 

En Dwi opened his eyes once more. Loki was behind him. 

Loki doesn’t speak a word, doesn’t blink. When En Dwi, well aware of the alcohol in his organism, watched carefully the figure behind him but somehow further than him, he could see that he didn’t move an inch nor flinched within his dreadful, more desperate than ever, glare. Loki didn’t even breathe. He was just a plain figure of his imagination standing there, quite like if he floated on the ground, observing him in his worse. Loki— _That_ figure of Loki seemed to have silver eyes, far from the blue and crystalline ones that had fire within ice, that burned so softly yet so intense. He is quite what would be the phantom of him. 

En Dwi liked what he saw, but in a twisted way; because he found out that there’s a beauty behind the madness, and his is Loki. Lo-Lo, his stars, his whole galaxy, his passion. Even when that’s not the real him, he didn’t care, En Dwi managed to not leave his eyes closed for more than a few seconds. He wanted to see that, he wanted to appreciate the image of a love that wasn’t anywhere in his physical, but in his mind. The sick and disturbed imagination who served only to hurt, to inflict pain more than heal a wound. And Loki— Loki is the good on him, is the deep end whom he’d fall to be good, but it’s so deep it’s unreachable and his hand, as big as it is, will never get there. That’s why he didn’t close them. 

The golden robe on Loki’s body was stunning. Can’t even believe. 

How did he manage to wear it? 

Doesn’t matter, he’s not there. He’s far away from there, somewhere else safer than there. 

En Dwi closed his eyes again, remembering himself of this little damaging detail. He’s alone. He’s alone, all by himself, and no one will bring him comfort but a bewildered image of his lover standing tall, being reflected on the shattered parts of a mirror whose he destroyed. No one can witness but eyes that weren’t Loki’s, but they could be even if it wasn’t what he wanted; if that wasn’t Loki’s real ones. 

A striking pain — he’d forgotten the physical one — raised from his bare feet to his ankles, then his knees, quite like if it’s growing bigger than he could foresee. So strong it made En Dwi fall on his knees, not much careful about getting hurt in the process. The mess is done, the blood is running out of him in drip drop so easily he could feel and could stop it; yet, withhold what’s done and cannot be undone is stupid. 

A familiar melancholy paces through the shattered glasses, and En Dwi has the slightest impression of being held by someone. His head rests on a cozy fabric and hands run through his hair, making him ease this feeling either lent him in feeling worse than he’s. 

En Dwi feels as if he could break at any instant. When the first tears started to gather on the corner of his pretty eyes and he allowed them to fall, he held Loki. Hold all the memories of him, hold what was left of him even when it’s distorted, even if it’s another ramification of the patch his insanity had created— The worst one, the one that can either destroy or create, but hardly heal. 

Holding Loki now was more painful than ever. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for readingggggg


End file.
